We cream them and for that receive
the bloodied weapons of our enemies
ruined in battle. A little funeral
wells up. My job is: clean the weapons.
But at night I go to bed, just like you,
with a firming gel beneath my eyes
to retard the aging process. What about dignity
and preparedness? Processes, loosenings.
Beneath the eyeing shine I try them on.
Part of night. Puddle water. New funerals
dot the landscape like black mushrooms.
Don’t get too comfortable, they said, a month
into the job. Blood is powerful because it is
a host to so many things, primarily
imperative. It floods the eye. You hurry
toward it. Lick the style from its form.
This makes you, in turn, a little more nowhere.
What else makes its home in blood?
Confusion, crescendo, desperation. I walk
to the park and eat lunch beneath the statue
of Saturn, devouring his children. His eyes
bulge. It isn’t everyday I think about his pain.
Frozen, he looks nauseated.
Uncomfortable. A funeral of oil.